The Alienist - Caleb Carr [128]
Throughout this encounter Kreizler displayed no apparent fear for our safety, but kept shaking his head slowly as if he knew exactly what was happening. Lasky soon had the shard of glass out of Pomeroy’s hands, after which he began to pummel the prisoner mercilessly with his fat fists. The fact that he couldn’t get at Jesse’s face seemed only to outrage him further, and the shots that he landed to the prisoner’s body became all the more savage. Yet even as Pomeroy cried out in pain, he continued to laugh—a wild kind of laughter, full of abandon and even, in some awful way, delight. I was utterly mystified and paralyzed; but Kreizler, after several minutes of this display, stepped forward and began to pull at Lasky’s shoulders.
“Stop it!” he shouted to the guard. “Lasky, for God’s sake, stop, you fool!” He kept yanking and tugging, but the huge Lasky was oblivious to his efforts. “Lasky! Stop, man, don’t you see, you’re doing what he wants! He’s enjoying it!”
The guard continued to pound away, and finally Kreizler, himself consumed by what seemed a sort of desperation, used the full weight of his body to shove Lasky away from Pomeroy. Surprised and enraged, Lasky got to his feet and took a hefty swing at Kreizler’s head, which Laszlo easily eluded. Seeing that the guard intended to keep coming after him, Kreizler balled his right hand into a fist and gave Lasky several quick shots that were vividly reminiscent of his very creditable stand against Roosevelt almost twenty years earlier. As Lasky reeled and fell back, Kreizler caught his breath and stood over him.
“It’s got to stop, Lasky!” he declared, in a voice so passionate that it made me rush over and stand between him and the prostrate guard, in order to prevent my friend from continuing his attack. Pomeroy lay on the floor, writhing in agony, trying to clutch his ribs with his shackled hands and still laughing grotesquely. Kreizler turned to him, breathing hard, and softly repeated:
“It’s got to stop.”
As Lasky’s head cleared, his eyes focused on Kreizler. “You son of a bitch!” He tried to get to his feet, but it was a struggle. “Help,” he gasped, spitting a little blood onto the floor. “Help! Guard in trouble!” His voice echoed out into the hall. “The old shower room! Help me, damn it!”
I could hear running feet coming toward us from what sounded like the far end of the building. “Laszlo, we’ve got to move,” I said quickly, knowing that we were now in very deep trouble: Lasky did not look like a man who would forgo revenge, especially if he had the aid of compatriots. Kreizler was still looking at Pomeroy, and I had to pull him out of the room. “Laszlo, damn you!” I said. “You’ll get us killed yet—pick up your feet and run!”
As we darted out the door Lasky made a dizzy lunge at us, but only succeeded in throwing himself back onto the floor. We passed four more guards in the cell block hallway, and I quickly told them that there’d been trouble between Lasky and Pomeroy and that the guard had been hurt. Seeing that Kreizler and I were uninjured, the guards sped on their way, while I forced Laszlo to make a dash past another group of uniformed men who stood in a confused huddle at the front gate. It didn’t take long for the guards inside to learn the truth of the situation, and soon they were howling threats as they chased after us. Fortunately, the old man we’d hired was still outside the prison gate with his rig, and by the time the pursuing guards appeared we were several hundred yards away from the place, making for the train station and—in my case, at least—praying that we wouldn’t have to wait long once we got there.
The first train to appear belonged to a small local line and was scheduled to make a dozen stops before it reached Grand Central; our predicament being what it was, however, we accepted the lengthy protraction of our trip and hopped on board. The cars were full of small-town travelers who evidently found our